Page 10 of Final Sins

“Munsinger’s just outside the park entrance. But he’s not alone.” Mac’s voice cut through the tense silence.

“What?” Alex was at his shoulder in an instant, peering at the monitor. Liv Hartley, their security specialist, joined her.

“Close in with one of the drones,” Alex directed. “Is the hostile armed? What about facial recognition?”

Mac’s broad shoulders flexed as he typed. “No can do in the dark, sweets. Facial recon camera needs more light for accuracy. But I can confirm one firearm. The client’s got it.”

Liv leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “So much for an easy pickup.”

Alex burned through likely scenarios, each one worse than the last. “We should abort. This reeks of a setup.”

“Hold up,” Mac interjected. “We’ve got the home field advantage here. Two of them, one gun, versus the three of us and this rolling tank? I like those odds.”

Liv nodded. “Mac’s right. Plus, if someone’s compromised Munsinger, don’t you want to know who? And why?”

Alex kicked a nearby cabinet, frustration boiling over. The hollow thunk echoed in the confined space. She took a deep breath, then another. “Point taken. But I’m going on the record. This could get complicated.”

Liv smiled grimly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Alex’s voice hardened, all business now. “Mission is a go. But we do this smart. Mac, keep those drones in the air. If it looks like there’s more company arriving, we bolt. Liv, let’s concentrate on the stranger. He so much as twitches, tranq him. Clear?”

Two nods answered her.

“Let’s go meet our surprise guest.”

Alex gripped the dash, her knuckles white as Mac fired up the RV and nosed it down the road toward the meet up. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating a path through the lunar-like landscape. Her eyes darted between the road and the blinking dots on the dashboard that represented Mac’s drones.

As they approached the coordinates, she saw the truck, a dark silhouette against the starlit sky. Her stomach tightened. The moment of truth.

Mac killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening. With a nod to Liv, who took up a defensive position, Alex and Mac approached the truck. Two figures spilled out, one babbling incessantly, the other eerily silent.

She recognized the Chatty Cathy. Their client, Robert Munsinger III. Or a reasonable facsimile. She’d confirm his ID momentarily.

Mac stalked toward Munsinger. Bathed in the harsh light from the RV’s headlights, she had to admit, Mac presented a daunting figure. Six foot six and carrying a weight lifter’s muscles, the large dark-skinned man could be mistaken for a street thug. A thug with several PhDs and enough special ops training to kill a man with his bare hands.

“I’ll take that handgun,” Mac insisted.

Eyes wide, Munsinger shot a look at his companion. The other man nodded immediately.

Not an idiot then. Good. The dumber people were, the more unpredictable.

Munsinger handed the weapon to Mac without a word.

Tucking the handgun away, Mac stepped back, out of range. Alex’s gaze locked onto the silent one—injured, from the looks of it.

Her anger flared hotter. “Our contract was for one client. Not two.”

The injured man’s voice was low, steady. “I’m not a client. Just here to make sure my man gets the services his dad ordered up.” A pause. “I’m Jason Reilly.”

“We’ll see,” Alex responded, her tone clipped. “Hold out your finger,” she ordered the client.

While Mac stood ready to intervene, if needed, she approached Munsinger and pressed the lancet to the tip of his finger.

“Ouch!” he pulled back as if she’d bitten him.

The device took only seconds to indicate a match to the sample RAVEN had received when Munsinger’s father arranged for his possible extraction.

As she moved around the hood of the truck, the other man quipped, “There’s a hole in my side big enough to drive a truck through. Do you really have to poke another one?”

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